


Cabin in the Middle of Somewhere

by Entropyrose



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Steve Bucky Barnes/Brock Rumlow established non-con relationship, Steve Rogers/Bucky Barnes budding romantic relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-16
Updated: 2016-08-16
Packaged: 2018-08-09 04:23:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7786612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Entropyrose/pseuds/Entropyrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Alternate Universe.) Bucky is safe now. Two days earlier, Steve was able to help him escape HYDRA's grasp. Coincidently, it happens to be time for the Avenger's vacation, to a secluded cabin in the middle of the woods. Bucky tries to come to grips with his predicament and start life anew. But Rumlow shows up unexpectedly, threatening to rip away any chance at a life with Steve.<br/>(Or, Bucky is deeply in love with Steve and is unsure of Steve's feelings on the matter.) (Or, Steve decides a vacation will do Bucky good.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cabin in the Middle of Somewhere

**Author's Note:**

> This fits nowhere. It's my own AU, where Rumlow doesn't die and Bucky isn't frozen, and the avengers go on a much-needed cabin vaycay.

On an unnamed lake, in an unnamed town, there sits an old cabin. The window panes are scuffed and clouded, and the porch boards are loose and make horrible creaking groans whenever they are stepped on. The door bounces off its hinges when someone runs through, and a musty, green odor permeates the halls. 

It is nothing special, and that is exactly what makes it so special.

Bucky sits at the end of the rickety little dock, kicking his feet in the frigid water. It is late October and the bright orange leaves fall around him like embers from a fire. 

"Bucky!" There is someone calling to him from the gravel driveway, and he hears a car trunk slam shut. He turns his head as Steve departs the small group that has just arrived and trots up to him. "It's freezing out here," he breathes, his ice-blue eyes surveying the horizon. Bucky watches, fascinated, as a small puff of warm air swirls past Steve's lips and disappears. 

"Hey Princesses," Tony calls from the car, a scowl visible even underneath his black Versace sunglasses. "You mind helping with the bags?" 

Steve shrugs and calls back, "Thought you could use the work-out." He flashes his classic grin, the one that makes you want to punch him and adore him at the same time. 

"Cute," Tony says in a tone that is anything but, and huffs a duffel over his back, making his way inside the cabin. 

"What?" Steve inquires with an innocent shrug when his eyes slide back down to Bucky's. Bucky blinks--he hadn't realised the growing smirk crossing his face. 

"Huh?" 

Steve shakes his head, laughing softly. "Come on, Buck. You're going to catch a cold." 

As if that were possible. He looks down at his feet, pallid white under the dark water, and wiggles his toes. He has been frozen so many times that a little cold water does nothing to his senses. He wonders, then, if some day he will stop feeling altogether. Still, he understands the meaning behind Steve's words--his attempt to help Bucky to feel alive again, feel human again, give him some sense of normalcy, whatever that means. Bucky smiles again, this time for show, to make an attempt and play along and pretend that everything is alright. 

He brushes the knees of his pants and slides out of the water, gathering up the tennis shoes he had discarded, and follows Steve off the dock, down the little gravel driveway, up the craggy stairs and inside the whimsical little cabin to join his--Steve's--friends. 

Natasha's head is buried in one of the three cupboards that make up the kitchen. "Did we pick up peanut butter when we were at the store?" 

"Who knows," comes a half-interested response from the couch. The one they call Hawkeye lazes lengthwise, trail boots on the arm-rest and an electronic video game in hand, his thumbs hammering the plastic buttons. 

Tony peers over his shoulder as he skips past. "Sonic the Hedgehog? Did you steal that from one of your kids?" 

"Damn straight," Clint replies. "Daddy's on vacation." 

"Oh, yeah." Tony waves a pointer finger in a downward circle above Clint's head. "Parent of the Year Award, right here." 

Natasha's head appears, the vibrancy of her red hair heightened by the black turtleneck that is tucked snugly into the waistband of her jeans. She shakes her head and lets out a disgruntled breath. "Well, we can't make Peanut Chicken, then." 

Tony snatches a dark bottle from the top shelf and wiggles it. "Burbon Chicken it is." 

She nods in approval. "That will work." 

"Come on," Steve says, working his way around the banter and grasping Bucky's hand. Bucky feels his heart flutter a little, grateful for the comfort the touch brings. All these new people, this place...His fingers curve naturally around the contours of Steve's as he pulls him up the hollow wooden steps...to his room, presumably. 

It opens up into a hallway the length of the house. Steve chooses the second door in and opens it up. A small room, wood paneling, rotted windows. The smell of must is overwhelming. "Stuffy," Steve says, as if thinking the same thing, and cracks the window. A fresh blast of ice-cool air tickles Bucky's cheek. 

He glances down at the small black duffel--it is Steve's duffel, with various items inside--strangely. He opens it, memorizing the feel of the steel zipper and glancing at the items inside.

There was: 

a small bar of soap, coconut scent.  
a twin-blade disposable razor, blue.  
a package of underwear--unopened, 3 pack, black.  
water bottle--empty.  
a pair of jeans--worn. Steve's. They are the same size.  
socks, 2 pair.  
shirts, 2, one gray, one blue. Steve's familiar scent eminated from them and Bucky fought back the urge to dip his nose down into the smell that was completely *him*....

"I, uh--" Steve's attempt at explanation jolts Bucky's thoughts. There are a few other items down towards the bag bottom, but Bucky zips it shut. "I knew you didn't have much--" 

(anything)

"--but I thought, until we could get you your own things..." 

Bucky watches the familiar pink crossing the Captain's cheeks and smiles. "Thank you." 

Steve nods sharply, and that is that. "Yep." 

Bucky spreads his hands over the rough quilt covering the bunk to his right, lost in the mazelike pattern. 

"That's your bed," Steve helps. "There's more blankets in the closet. And my room's the first door we passed. Turn right and I'm there." 

Bucky pulls at the scratchy sweater he had ripped off of some clothesline in some seedy market downtown, paunchy and pilled, rough. 

"Oh. Uh. Shower's this way." Steve shows him to a bathroom the size of a broom closet, with a toilet, a sink and a stand-up shower. Bucky practices sliding the demi-secure glass pane back and forth and glances inside. The light scent of lemon cleaner promises a relatively drama-free bathing experience. 

"You turn it on this way," Steve reaches across Bucky, to the silver shower knob, his chest hovering inches from Bucky's. Bucky's dark blue eyes meet the wide, searching light of Steve's and he swallows. "Sorry," Steve lets out softly, his hand slipping away, returning the space to Bucky. "Towels," Steve announces, turning his attention to a small cubby. "And uh..." His rhythmically taps his fingers on the bathroom door. "Let me know if..." 

Bucky bites the inside of his lip at an angle he is confident Steve cannot not see, fighting back the urge to beg him not to leave him alone. He thinks of other options--could he leave the door open? Could Steve wait outside?--and decides they would sound just as ridiculous spoken aloud. 

"I'll be downstairs." 

With that, Bucky is left without the presence of the only person that matters, the only one who believes in him, whom has trusted him...

He curses himself inwardly and plops the little black pack into the sink, reverently unzipping the flaps and producing the bar of soap. He undresses quickly and with maximum efficiency, slipping into the little white chamber with the sliding glass door. 

"-----------Prep the Asset for cryogenic protocol-----------" 

"---------------BP is down by 31 per cent---------------" 

"-------------respirations are 4 per minute--------------------" 

Bucky slams his naked fist on the shower wall, squeezing his eyes shut and grinding his teeth. His hand, shaking, goes to the knob. Hot or cold, it doesn't matter. Anything would help now. The water that splashes onto his back and overcomes his senses is frost-cold. He catches his breath under the stream, finding his ground, slowing his pounding heart. 

He wishes he had the courage to ask Steve to stay. He dreads the solace. Solace means emptiness. Emptiness means nothingness. Nothingness allows the darkness to come crashing in. 

He grabs the soap and scrubs all over, shampooing his hair next. He uses the bottle that hangs out from the caddy, and it smells just like Steve. It calms his nerves a little, enough to finish the shower and throw a towel around himself. 

When he gets out, he piles through the remainder of the bag's contents, discovering a travel-size bottle of after-shave; Pinaud-Clubman, something he remembers his grandfather wearing. He traces a finger over the label appreciatively. Then he unwraps the new underwear package.

Steve's jeans fit a little loosely in the waist and a little snugly in the seat, but they feel exponentially better than the ragged pair of sweats he had just discarded in the wastebasket. He turns in them, quickly examining a few different angles, then reverently slips Steve's tee shirt--the gray one--over his head. Feeling a bit like a school girl, he hugs himself, closing his eyes and reveling in the spicy smell; laundry soap, cinnamon and lavender, like sunshine itself. 

He runs a comb through the tendrils of wet brown hair, then lathers some cream onto his face and shaves. 

Normalcy. 

A knock at the door makes him jump. 

"You almost done in there?" 

"Yeah," Bucky says. He balances the bottle of shave cream and the razor in one hand and twists the door handle open with the other. 

"Oh, sorry." Steve runs a hand through his bright blond hair, leaning against the door as Bucky finishes.

"s'Okay." Bucky mumbles, turning back to the mirror and shaving off a stripe of foam and stubble. 

"Oh, can I ...uh...?" Steve gestures for the razor. Bucky hands it off, blinking subtly as his face is cradled in a warm, wide palm. "There's a spot right under here," Steve mutters, concentrating on gently lifting Bucky's chin and getting underneath of it. 

His breath is sweet--smells like coca cola. Bucky focuses on his glass-blue eyes and the bridge of Steve's Romanesque nose, freely admiring the man who isn't noticing he's looking. Bucky bites softly on his bottom lip.

"Dinner's going to be ready soon. Natasha is a really great cook, but uh...Tony helped, so, no guarantee on the quality." 

Bucky smirks. 

Steve finishes up, and his warm touch fades as he rinses the razor under running water and taps it on the sink. "There," he announces satisfactorily. 

"Thanks," Bucky says, stuffing the items back into Steve's tiny black bag. He looks back, sliding his gaze down to meet Steve's, catches him staring at the jeans Bucky is wearing. 

Steve's head snaps to attention. "Uh. They look good." Pauses. "On you." 

"Thanks," Bucky repeats, then playfully tacks on at the end, "...wierdo."

Steve's shoulders relax and he laughs softly, throwing an arm around his best friend. "C'mon," he chides, ushering Bucky towards the door. 

Halfway through dinner-which is actually quite tasty--there is a knock on the front door. It is the beginning of the Avengers' woodland vacation, and Bucky had already been warned that there would be arrivals, both new and not-so-new, joining in on the fun. 

Bucky's not looking up at the door expectantly like everyone else. The heavy thud of the battle-worn boots approaching the front door tells him everything he needs to know. He swallows dryly and stares down at the plate of his half-eaten chicken, rice and broccoli. 

"Hey guys," The familiar voice greets and a man in a black baseball cap enters. 

"Finally decided to show, eh?" Steve gets up from his place beside Bucky and slaps Rumlow on the back as he drags a duffel through the entryway. 

"Thanks for the invite. Sorry to arrive in the middle of your dinner. I had a couple of things I had to finish up at the office, so..." 

Bucky feels Rumlow's gaze falling on him but stares downward continuously. "Office" is a very nice term for where Rumlow operates—“chemical testing facility” or “dungeon” is more like it. For a moment, Bucky wonders how many of those "things" that Rumlow was working on are actually people. 

"Come on in," Steve says, pulling up a wooden chair to the table. Natasha and Clint make room. 

Bucky remembers vague snippets of some of the conversations Rumlow had with a few of his co-workers. Quick little comments that seemed inconsequential at the time. "So Steve and I were over at the docks...", "Cap tried his hand at poker last night and I totally wrecked him." Bucky feels sick as he comes to the realization of who Rumlow had been referring to. 

Rumlow sits and Bucky squirms. "Hey kid," Rumlow says. 

Bucky stiffens. 

Rumlow makes himself quite at home, stabbing a piece of broccoli and rolling it around his plate. "How're you adjusting?" His mouth is already half-full with food. He takes a big gulp of beer from a brown bottle and Bucky wants to crawl under the table and die right there. "No hard feelings, right? Business is business. And this..." Rumlow works on a piece of chicken, tearing into it with his teeth. "...is pleasure." 

Bucky feels a light kick on his pant leg and glances to his right to see Steve's concerned face.  
"I'm fine," Bucky says, a little too quietly, forcing a tight-lipped smile. 

"Good," Rumlow murmurs. Bucky musters the courage to glare at him, making it known if only between the two of them that the remark was not made for Rumlow's benefit. He is rewarded with a dark, broad smirk that slowly crosses Rumlow's lips. 

Bucky's eyes slam back down to his food, which has suddenly lost all appeal. 

The evening winds down with a board game that Bucky only half understands, no matter how many times or how slowly it is explained. The whole group has gathered in the center of the living room floor, in front of a roaring fireplace, a picture that in any other context would probably be perfect. 

"This is you," Sam explains, holding up a small blue peg. He slides it into a miniature blue car and places it on a blue square.

"Okay," Bucky says, as Steve hands him the dice. Steve's shoulder is touching Bucky's metal arm as he leans against him, propped up on an elbow. Bucky knows it is an overprotective gesture, maybe a subconscious one, but he is grateful for it. Rumlow's eyes are boring a hole into the back of his head but he does his best to mentally brush the feeling away. 

"I swear, you guys, all this modern technology and you have the ingenuous mental complexity to want to play some crappy board game from the fifties." Tony languidly sips a cocktail drink while dangling his legs off the back of the couch, content to watch. 

"Actually," Steve begins, rolling the dice and making his move on the board, "Life came out in the victorian times as the most popular parlor game." 

Tony rolls his eyes. "Oh great, so it's incredibly old and incredibly stupid." 

"You're incredibly old and stupid," Clint chimes in. 

"Well that's mature, Papa Bear." Tony playfully kicks Clint's knee and Clint snickers. 

"Guys," Natasha corrects, drawing out the word. "Are we playing here or what? I swear, you all get in a room together and it's like I'm the babysitter." 

The board game goes on for twenty minutes or so before everyone gets bored and eventually migrates to the back yard. The sun is setting fast and Natasha, Clint and Steve throw a few logs into the fire pit. 

"Here," Steve says, offering a thick wool coat to Bucky. 

"I'm good," Bucky says, but takes it anyway, draping it over his legs.

Rumlow snickers and mutters under his breath, "Yeah you are." 

Bucky flashes a look his direction, his eyes burning under his dark bangs, illuminated by the beginning fire light. Suddenly, he is anxious for Steve to join his side again, to have a reason to ignore the dark soldier behind him, comfort and assurance that there is where he used to be--that here is where he is now. 

Rumlow is grinning back, though he does eventually look away, into the burning pit, taking a swig of beer. 

"Can I talk to you for a second?," he hears a soft voice behind his shoulder and turns to see Natasha touch Steve's arm. 

Steve looks back at Bucky before responding reluctanly. "Uhm...yeah." He gives Bucky's metal arm a pat and Bucky catches the reaction as Steve pulls his hand back suddenly. It's like touching a flag-pole in the middle of winter. "Be right back," he says, and Bucky can tell Steve is inwardly kicking himself for reacting that way. (For what, Bucky wonders, for being human?) 

They disappear around the front of the cabin and Bucky's stomach sinks into the ground. 

Rumlow doesn't waste any time in churning up the waters. "He doesn't know, does he?" 

"No," Bucky mutters, pulling up a few weeds that are growing out from under the stump he sits on. 

"Real nice. Bet that's going to be pretty hard to tell your best buddy, don't you think?" 

"He will understand," Bucky says confidently, and in truth he has all faith that Steve will. "Besides," he adds, "That part is done now." 

Rumlow snickers softly. "You sound pretty certain of that." 

"I am." Bucky's voice is unwavering. He doesn't bother looking at Rumlow's face when he says it--whatever Rumlow thinks is irrelevant, now. 

"You actually think he's going to want you, after...?” Rumlow lets out a raspy chuckle. “ Oh Christ, kid, you're more gullible than I thought." 

Bucky closes his eyes, setting his jaw and squeezing the weeds in his hand so hard his fist shakes. 

Steve returns with Natasha, both share similar worried looks. They break off when they reach the circle, Natasha goes to sit by Clint and Steve plants himself right in front of Bucky, sitting between Bucky's booted feet on the soft ground. Bucky blinks, but leans into his warmth, placing two elbows on his broad, fleece-covered back and staring at the fire. Steve reaches for Bucky's hand and squeezes it momentarily. "Glad you're back, Buck." 

Bucky smiles a little, happy to flaunt the moment in front of Rumlow, who no doubt is seething. Bucky dips his head and touches the nape of Steve's neck, smelling the familiar mixture of wood smoke, Steve's shampoo, and his natural scent. 

Finally home.

* * * * * 

Bucky is not sure how he will ever get to sleep. He pulls the heavy blankets up to his chin and stares at the ceiling. He knows how ridiculous it sounds, but even having a wall separate him and Steve seems too much to take in right now. Nobody was planning on Bucky coming along on their annual vacation--Bucky himself included--but it seems fate has a way of intervening. 

He wills his body to relax, blowing out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been keeping in, and pulling the collar of the gray tee shirt up to his chin, knowing Steve's scent will calm his nerves. He is safe now--he knows it--but convincing his subconscious, the part of him that has trained for years to go running towards danger, is a different story. 

He closes his eyes, letting his heartbeat fill his ears, and slowly succumbs to the weariness in his veins.

A hand clamped over his mouth startles him and he tries to jolt upright, but feels a heavy body leaning over him. Instinctively, he balls his metal hand into a fist and punches, reeling from the sudden surge of energy as it is hurled backward. He flashes a look behind him, seeing a bright blue object shining out in the darkness. "SHHH," comes the harsh whisper in his ear. "It's okay. It's just me." Rumlow lets up a little, but keeps his vibranium-reactive magnetic field turned on, posted on the headboard just above Bucky's head. 

"Let me go," Bucky growls, bringing a knee up between himself and the intruder. He jerks on his metal arm for affect. 

"Oh," Rumlow shakes his head, his sneer plainly visible in the glow from the magnet. "I wouldn't dream of it, sweetheart. No, we've got to talk." 

"I have nothing to say to you," Bucky growls, squirming further up the bed without much success for the effort. 

"Yeah and you could kick my ass even without your fancy robot arm, so why don't you?" 

Bucky’s struggling lessens as a sad, dark look crosses his face. "You know why." 

"Yeah," says Rumlow, tracing a calloused finger down one side of his face. "Yeah, I do." 

Bucky shakes his head. "Back off!" 

Rumlow's eyes are nearly black, like peering into a placid pool of water at night. Bucky doesn't mean to let a whimper escape past his lips, but as he does, Rumlow is there to catch it with his thumb. Rumlow sweeps it over Bucky's pouty bottom lip, pulling on it experimentally. "I miss you," he murmurs, leaning further in, and Bucky can smell the engine grease and black leather and burnt coffee smell that is Rumlow. 

"Please," Bucky whimpers again, this time it's against Rumlow's parted lips, as if he is drawing his strength out through his mouth. A hand to the back of his head pushes him further forward until their lips are connected, Rumlow moaning against Bucky's. The sensation is wet and seedy and makes Bucky's stomach turn even as his body responds, shuddering as Rumlow's tongue flicks out over the edges of his mouth. 

"You want it, baby?" Bucky stiffens. He searches his brain for an affirmation on the correct response and comes up empty. "Say it," Rumlow encourages, his thumbs rubbing little circles on both of Bucky's arms. When this isn't enough convincing, Rumlow nods his head--forehead pressed against Bucky's--and Bucky follows suit, mimicking the motion as his chin touches his collar bone. "Good boy," Rumlow groans, rewarding him with another kiss, mashing their mouths together. 

Bucky sighs, his mouth opening obediently. He remembers now. Yes, he is good. A good soldier. 

"Don't worry about a thing, baby." Rumlow pulls away and Bucky reaches for the touch--it is more familiar than even Steve's, and satiates that need for a constant connection, something to let him know he is not alone in this world. He never truly was alone. When there wasn't Steve, or the world, or even his own mind, there was Rumlow. "I' m not taking you back there. You can stick with me, yeah?" 

Bucky's eyelashes flutter as his brain backpedals. "But---" 

"Hey, we can see Steve every day, okay? You can hang out and be friends and visit any time, okay?" 

"I don't want to visit," Bucky murmurs. 

Rumlow's eyes flash. "What?" 

"I said I don't want to visit--" Bucky's voice gains courage and volume with every syllable until Rumlow's hand returns to his mouth, clamping down over it. 

Rumlow crawls on his knees onto the bed, hovering over Bucky with a gleam of hatred in his eyes. He pauses, shakes his head as his eyes grow soft again and the gentle swirls on Bucky's arms returns. "Oh baby, that's just because you don't remember." He reaches over Bucky's head and the blue light flicks off, dropping Bucky's metal arm back to the bed. "I'm going to help you, though, okay?" Rumlow is back to nodding his head affirmatively, and Bucky is back to following suit. "I'm going to help you remember." 

Rumlow's hands are scarred and wide, the rough texture scratching against Bucky's baby-soft skin. It nearly seems unfair, Bucky thinks, that Rumlow should suffer and fight alongside a super-soldier with healing abilities while he himself bears every wound. 

Rumlow's hands trail down Bucky's abdomen, following the rise and fall of his belly as he breathes. He tugs on the shirt, revealing the smooth skin and ribbing over his muscles as it reveals more flesh. "Good boy," Rumlow repeats and Bucky's belly quivers. Rumlow's head dips down and his tongue slides out to reverently lick a stripe of saliva up Bucky's stomach. This sends sparks racing through his brain and he bucks against the touch. Rumlow's kisses trail up his abdomen, to the middle of his chest where he flicks a taste over Bucky's left nipple.

"Mmmh..." Bucky's head goes back to the pillow, cinnamon brown hair spilling down, his hands reaching for Rumlow's arms as the feathery touch reawakens senses that only Rumlow reminds him that he has. 

"Good," Rumlow coaxes the soft bud to attention, sucking it into his mouth, the warm wetness sending a shiver right down Bucky's thighs. Bucky's flesh hand snakes into Rumlow's hair, pulling softly. Rumlow shudders as he hesitantly pulls Bucky's hand away. "No." 

"No?," Bucky asks, incredulous.

"This is for you, baby. Just you." Rumlow's fingers trail down into the dark space between the blankets, where Bucky's hips meet the shadows and disappear. 

He mewls dryly, his knees parting obediently to receive Rumlow's familiar touch. 

Rumlow's mouth has returned to cover Bucky's, drowning out his confused groan. "Ssssh," he says against Bucky's quivering lips. "Oh but god I know how you want it." 

His hand dips easily underneath the waistband of Bucky's boxers, following the soft dusting of hair down to his flaccid length. He slips a finger underneath and lifts him into his grasp. 

Bucky gasps sharply, his metal arm digging into Rumlow’s shoulder. Rumlow winces a little, but keeps up the pace with a firm pressure, coaxing Bucky’s cock to standing. Bucky is sighing into Rumlow’s mouth, the warm air of his panting breath circling inside. “Such a good boy,” he encourages with a firm tug, and Bucky jumps. 

“Stop,” Bucky mutters suddenly, bringing his naked hand to Rumlow’s chest and pushing. 

“I don’t think so,” Rumlow growls, squeezing firmly. 

“—said stop!” Bucky’s push becomes a shove that knocks Rumlow off balance, and Rumlow grabs Bucky’s wrist as he cranes over the bed, twisting angrily. 

His eyes flash darkly as he growls, “You don’t want to do this.” 

“No,” Bucky snarls back, matching expressions with his former superior. “YOU don’t want to do this.” 

“Listen here, you ungrateful little bitch…”

The fist still buried between Bucky’s legs clamps down and Bucky lets out a pained squeal, his head wrenching to one side. His knees curl up to his chest protectively as he tries to turn away from the man on top. 

“You know, we could do this back at S.H.I.E.L.D., if you’d prefer. They’ll strap you into that metal chair and scramble your gray matter and turn you back into a good little whore, give you back to me proper.”

“Go to hell,” Bucky hisses. 

“I’m not giving up on you yet,” Rumlow mutters, even as his hand releases Bucky’s throbbing member and slides out from under the blankets. 

Bucky quivers as Rumlow traces a finger down his bare shoulder. 

“We’re not done yet.” 

“Yes you are,” comes a dark growl from the doorway. 

Rumlow’s head snaps up to greet the flashing blue eyes of Steve as he glares down at him. He snorts softly, pausing in his place, still half-straddling Bucky’s leg. 

“Get out while you still have legs to walk with.” 

“Steve—“ Bucky says roughly, his voice clouded with confusion and embarrassment and pain. 

Rumlow makes an attempt to smooth things over with a rushed chuckle, his lips turning up into a crooked smile. “Guess he didn’t tell you, huh, boss?” He glowers down at Bucky and shakes his head slowly. “Typical.” 

Steve takes one step in from the doorway, and as soon as his foot lands in the slice of moonlight spilling in from the window, Rumlow jumps up from the bed, the springs bouncing back from the release of the weight. 

He throws his hands up. “Okay, okay. I get it.” 

“Get out.” 

Bucky watches with disdain as Rumlow carefully sidles past the towering blond, his shoulders relaxing as he hears the steps of Rumlow’s heavy boots disappear down the stairs. He and Steve stare blankly at each other until they hear a military vehicle peel out of the gravel driveway and disappear down the driveway. 

Bucky slides his head towards the wall, resisting the urge to hug his knees. 

Steve’s throat is so dry, Bucky can hear him swallow. “Are you okay?” 

“Fine,” Bucky mutters. 

Steve’s lips part, his brain scrambling to find the words that won’t come. 

“I’m fine,” Bucky repeats. “Go back to bed.” 

Steve stands there for a few moments, darkening the doorway and shifting his feet. Finally, he straightens up and says softly, “Okay.” 

Bucky looks up as he hears Steve coming closer—which of course is the exact opposite of leaving—and lets out a startled grunt as Steve’s heaviness sinks down beside him into the bed. “What’re you—?” 

“Going back to bed,” Steve replies incredulously, throwing a protective arm like a ship’s bough around Bucky’s shoulders. “If that’s okay?” 

Bucky blinks in disbelief, but Steve is warm and safe and familiar and he can already feel his heart rate slowing comfortably. “Sh..sure,” he says, slipping back down into the covers, and pressing a cheek against Steve’s broad chest. He chuckles softly. 

“What’s funny?,” Steve asks, staring up at the wooden slats across the ceiling. 

“It’s just…” Bucky’s hand creeps slowly around Steve’s waist, clutching onto a small fold of his tee shirt. “I’m supposed to be protecting you, you know?” 

“You are protecting me,” Steve mutters into Bucky’s cinnamon-brown hair. “More than you know.” 

They fall asleep listening to the ebbing of each other’s breath, for the remainder of the darkness of the night. 

* * * * *


End file.
